Ode to my Leftover Eggs
by Myra King

Cat Stevens sang “ovary young, what will you…”
'oh very'
well, I know,
but hey
we’re all getting
older and my eggs are running out
through the hourglass of time
but not like grains of sand
smaller than that

in my mother’s womb
and all those mothers before her
grand and great
back though the ages
murky of creation
we are all
mothers to our
surrogate selves

only four of my eggs got lucky
and only four sperm come
to think of that
vitro is cleaner, clearer
but maybe not
as much fun

in full flush I flash through
these after youth years
into my bloodless months
I hang the white rag of my past
triumphal surrender and step
willingly into the next phase
change is always uneasy

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